


A Mortal More Righteous Than God

by Anonymous



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel!Gon, Bishop!Chrollo, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gon is quite literally thousands of years old in this, I'm Sorry, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, cherub!Gon, please don't smite me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Chrollo is just a man. It's Gon's job to remind him of such. However, Gon finds it hard to fly on sullied wings.
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29
Collections: Sin x Bin, anonymous





	A Mortal More Righteous Than God

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to golddustgirl for agreeing to be my beta at the last minute!! 
> 
> Inspired by an artist's chrollogon au on twitter. Comment if you'd like their handle. I do not want to bring unnecessary negative attention, but I also want to credit properly.
> 
> S/o to the closeted Chrollogon shippers who gave me the inspo<3

Sometimes during service, Gon likes to hide amongst the towering figurines; waxy simulations of his kin morphed in fine powders and fine faces painted with careful hands; hands blessed by God. The echo of Chrollo’s voice whispers past the pews, scattering evenly amongst the hushed crowd. They hang onto his words like the multicolored chandeliers that decorate the cavernous mouth of the gothic vaulted ceiling. It’s gaudy but not close to God in any way— much too far to be graced by his presence. Gon tells Chrollo that if he truly wants to touch God, he must first learn to fly.

A cherub himself, he is a sworn celestial attendant, sworn to guard Garden of Eden all of his days. It’s a rather quaint job. Every once in a while, someone like Chrollo comes around to stir up the ruins, set just outside the gate that separates him from immortality. He, himself, doesn’t realize that he imitates God; fashions himself in God’s image instead of that of a man. He sits atop his pedestal, beckoning crowds to pledge devotion to him. It is Gon’s job to sweep up his mess, but he usually finds that Chrollo makes a mess of him instead.

The congregation leaves steadily, some clinging to Chrollos arm as if they can pluck the blessing right from his brow as if his skin is enough to grant their wishes or put food in their hungry bellies. Gon keeps his wings tucked close to his person, watching from the numerous statues that decorate the less than humble Cathedral.

  
“So, what did you think of today’s message, little Gon,” Chrollo questions, shutting the door to the church for the night. He holds a drippy candelabra in his left hand, ornately decorated in painted golds and semi-precious jewels: remnants of the desires of man.

  
“Was it any different from your previous teachings?” Gon asks bluntly, stepping down from the raised platform he’d been hiding in. “Such thoughts of opening oneself up to Him, letting one’s breast bear His word. I think I heard something about the fire of one’s loins bearing that which would ennoble the courage of man to charge forth, to fully become one with the Lord. Then, he would be inside you, as you’re fully seated at the right hand of the father and cherished greatly by him.”

  
“But first, one must denounce one’s own claim to one’s mortal form and worldly desires so that he may use you,” Chrollo adds to Gon’s spiel. They’ve discussed it enough that Gon can read it back to Chrollo like a prayer. Gon’s close enough now to watch the beaded earrings adorning Chrollo’s lobes glint wickedly in the low light of the church. “Do you know what the word says about the bosom?” Chrollo asks, snaking a hand past the robes Gon is forced to adorn when he takes shape in the material world. “Carry them in thy bosom, as a nursing father beareth the sucking child, unto the land which thou swarest unto their fathers?” Chrollo continues, ghosting a long finger over rosy buds. They pebble as he sinks to his knees behind Gon, taking in his scent. Mortals are always drawn to his smell. Chrollo rests his forehead against the skin set between his wings, mouthing just beneath the start of his humerus. His wings flex involuntarily at the tickling sensation, struggling to still at warm candle light bounces off glittering feathers.

  
“Yes, I know these words very well, Chrollo,” Gon whispers as Chrollo palms at his crotch, another hand spreads oil across the crest of his ass, anointing his taint with superficial divine goodness. His fingers stop at the clenching rim, gracing his hole with the gentle pads of worn fingers.

  
“Can you say them back to me, little Gon,” Chrollo requests. He loves when Gon reads to him even though Gon can recite the word from memory. He picks up the heavily marked black book as Chrollo works in a second finger, scissoring him open. “What does it say, Gon?” His fingers are purposeful, pressing into the squishy wad inside of Gon’s mortal form, making his wings quiver; glossy pale feathers tremble beneath his touch, fragile and reactive to the lightly of ministrations. A small dribble of saliva falls onto the page as he re-reads Exodus, struggling not to bow his back against the invading digits. No mortal has ever made him sing like this, bow his back in the name of anyone else but the Lord, yet here he is drooling over the pages of the holy book. Quiet murmurs of latin and unnamed tongue swarm, hummed from his lips.

  
“Give to the one who b-begs from you,” Gon stutters, fingers tightening around the page as he feels the tip of Chrollo’s staff graze his hole, “and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you.” He finishes as Chrollo fully seats himself inside Gon, parting his flesh, feeling the space until he is full and panting, tears dampening the pages of the Holy book.

  
“Yes, Gon, you are perfect, divine in every way. Please, tell me what I, a man-made of flesh, a mortal with worldly desires, should do to quell this hunger,” Chrollo announces, thrusting harshly. That of candle wax drips from Gon’s flesh; it rolls down flushed skin, beading at the glans of his erection. The slight sting of stretch pulls him deeper and deeper into the world in which Chrollo inhabits, molding his insides until he’s re-purposed. Chrollo presses further inside Gon’s convulsing hole, steady and strong as his sermon just moments earlier. Gon’s loins ache, burning white and hot as Chrollo uses his mortal flesh for his own worldly pleasures; the deadliest of sins, pride, takes hold. And he can bear it no longer, crying hot, head bowing before man as Chrollo takes him, stripping him of his robes, dripping sweat onto his stomach as Gon drips white fluid onto the rich red carpeting.

  
“Chrollo, please.” Chrollo inserts a finger into his mouth, rendering him speechless as he pries him apart, fingering his dirtied feathers as he pinches at his breast. Gon could not run if he wanted to. He’s Chrollo’s for the taking, and Chrollo lets him know, marking his mortal flesh as he pulses inside him, filthying his pure, clean skin with a purple welt. Gon’s going nowhere tonight. He will not be flying on dirtied wings.


End file.
